When two of Britain's most mental of investigative scientists are told are informed of a missing man who died over 200 years ago, and tales of a pyramid that can morph time, it becomes obvious they won't get a tea break, but then again, how often do they use a tea break wisely?

Fred clambered rather ineloquently into his Jensen Interceptor and went to drive off with Gerrald still not out of the building yet.

Gerrald wasn't concerned because the chances of Fred getting the damn car started were as likely as him getting a girlfriend.

He sauntered over to the car and waited patiently for either Fred to give in, the car to start, or for the coyote to try and hotwire it and as a result set the whole thing on fire.

There was a groan from inside the car and Fred swung the door open, got out and stormed off to get a blunt implement in which to beat it with.

Gerrald leapt in and got to the ignition. He turned the key once and the car purred into life as majestically as a free-falling brick.

Upon hearing the engine start, Fred returned.

"Come on then! We haven't got all day!" said Fred.

They drove away from the building and headed down the street

"Were do we have to go anyway?" Asked Fred

Gerrald opened the letter. "Ah, it's one of those fake Las Vegas places." he said looking at the address of where they were to go.

"Oh what, those ones with the neon lights..." said Fred

"And the girls" Gerrald reminded him

"...those weird dancing thing's..."

"Girls?"

"...and that...eh? Probably." Fred had only just caught up with what Gerrald was saying.

Soon, they arrived outside the destination, not that it was possible to miss it considering it what as bright and as popular as that viral video of Albert Einstein assaulting a table. It was also about as logical. It was laid out like the food at a child's birthday party. The huge neon lights would dwarf suns as their brightness would emit a false sense of security and sophistication. They were but the shiny surface of the shoddy and decaying environment they encapsulated. One of these shiny surfaces was the pub in the middle. Like practically everything else, its name; "The arms have fallen off" was illuminated in fancy flashing neons. The inside was filled with a thick, foul fog of smoke and soot. In fact, if it were to catch on fire, it would be unlikely that anyone would notice. Or mabye it was on fire. Either way, Fred and Gerrald decided to find refuge inside.

Once inside, Gerrald was straight to the job at hand, chatting up some poor lady who probably was trying to drink any memory of the last bloke away with cheep whiskey.

The lady Gerrald was most interested in was totally out off his league, not that that was difficult to accomplish. She was in her mid 30's with long blond hair. She sat at one table smoking a tab and downing a bottle of whiskey without bothering to put it in a glass. It was unclear whether Gerrald picked these sort off women because he knew he was naff at chatting them up, or if he was just bad at choosing.

"Watch this. She is going to get some ratty tonight!" Gerrald proclaimed

It was moments like this that Fred wished he couldn't understand English for Gerrald's proclamations about how he was going to get it on with a lady were almost dangerous and certainly insane.

Gerrald swaggered across the table "Hey baby! I'm from a different planet! Wanna' see ma' spaceship?"

The lady looked down at him from her whiskey. "Why are you 'ere?"

Gerrald walked closer "I just like your humans cooking."

"Arrg! I need to get drunk!" Fred cried out, sort of jogging to the bar.

After about 30 minuets of "flirting" Gerrald realised that it was hopeless and turned his attention to what had happened to Fred. He was walking upstairs to the sleeping quarters with a rather well-built male raccoon. This raccoon was the same sort off thing Fred was: same size as a human, walked on two leg's, could speak English. Gerrald had a pretty good idea what was going on. He wasn't dumb. He had suspected such things from Fred for a long time, he had evidence to support his suspicions, such as when he found him in a bed with a male roadrunner. Fred insisted that he was sneaking up on it to try and eat it and that he was so drunk in the end he fell asleep. He also found him going to "those sort of parties". Gerrald had no problem with it, he went by the theory that the more gay people there were, the less competition he'd have with the ladies, as well as it just being no issue to him in general. The only thing that sort of annoyed him was how Fred was being so defiant. Surely Fred knew he knew, after the roadrunner fiasco, how could you not? Gerrald was also slightly jealous. He wasn't that way inclined but it had occurred to him that Fred was meeting people and he wasn't.

With an air of despair, Gerrald tried one last time by using what must be known universally as the single worst chat up line in the history off anything. "Lady, are you ready to get Rat-Arsed?" The lady picked up the bottle of whiskey and tipped the contents all over Gerrald. Because Gerrald is just weird, he rather enjoyed it.

Gerralds thoughts once again turned to Fred. Before he could be sure he'd have to climb the stairway to hell.

Once the offending stairway was climbed ,in an insanely undignified way, Gerrald stood on the end off a shelf next to an open door. It was only ajar but Gerrald could see exactly what was inside. He scanned the situation before turning to face Fred who was jogging down the corridor towards the room.

"Look, I don't care really. Just enjoy yourself and try not to catch anything." Gerrald reassured him whilst backing away. "I, meanwhile, have some tatty bojangles to check out downstairs." He said turning and leaving.

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